


Unbinding

by Crazy_Dumpling



Category: British Actor RPF, Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Dark, F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Dumpling/pseuds/Crazy_Dumpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen will say she expected Arthur to be more like the character he played.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbinding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Bondage (other)' prompt on [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> This fic contains strong themes of infidelity, so please be forewarned. Also, the bondage referred to here is more psychological than physical and works more on the principle of control, rather than any sort of restraint system.
> 
> Oh, and this fic got much darker than I ever planned for it to be.

Karen can't remember why she ever thought it was a good idea to start in the first place. Sometimes she blames it on drink; she had to be drunk the first time (please let her have been drunk). And then, the annoying voice in the back of her head that still sounds a little like her Mum tells her to stop being such a naive fool. She should be enough of an adult to admit to her mistakes.

The thing is, she can't find it in herself to stop.

"Get on the bed," Arthur tells her, his voice soft, but his tone brooking no argument, "and spread your legs for me. Arms over your head. Don't move them until I say you can."

She obeys, getting onto the anonymous double bed. She is naked, her clothes having been carefully taken off, folded and placed on a chair. The sheets are cool against her skin and she tries and fails to hold back a small shiver as she lays down for him. Karen puts her hands up as instructed and crosses them at the wrist, wishing she didn't feel so helpless.

Arthur is sitting on an armchair, his elbow propping up his head, watching her as she squirms a little on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Karen remembers the first time they did this. She will say that she was drunk (of course), and missing home and the boy who is there waiting for her. She will say that Matt would have been her first choice (not likely), and that he had been out with his girlfriend of the week, so she had gone to see Arthur instead. Arthur, who plays lovely, sweet, unthreatening Rory to her exuberant, impulsive Amy.

Karen will say she expected Arthur to be more like the character he played.

She had brought along a bottle of cheap Spanish red to his hotel room after a long day of filming and he had let her in with a wry smile on his face, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he had just woken up from a long nap when they'd all been filming in the wet, cold quarries of Wales. They'd swapped stories about friends, girlfriends, boyfriends. He'd let her listen to a few songs on his ipod. She'd teased him about his band. They'd drunk the bottle dry.

Then she'd kissed him. It was an impulsive action, and she'll say that she still had Amy in her head when she did it. And they'd kissed so many times before. But this, this felt different from the family-friendly snogs they'd had in front of the crew (to Matt's loud amusement and unsolicited tips). The kiss tasted of darkness and the metallic hint of danger, and it threatened to pull her under like a riptide. She'd say that the drink had made her just the slightest bit reckless, but it wasn't true. Not entirely.

The fact is that Arthur kisses nothing like Rory. He likes to wind his fingers in her hair and hold her in place, tugging just lightly enough to cause the barest whisper of pain and nips at her bottom lip with his teeth, a distinct contrast to the sweet softness that he displays for the cameras. It shouldn't be as addictive as it is, but as with everything else about him, Karen finds herself frighteningly fascinated by it.

They'd fucked that first night, and it had been messy; all hurriedly pushed up dresses, ripped shirts, and unzipped jeans, but she found herself winding her body around his, holding him close to her, as if they were the fictional characters they portray on television, and she really was a time-travelling kissogram and he was the sweetest boy in the world. The time after that, however, she had come willingly to his door, under no intoxicating influence save her own twisted need to see if that night had just been a one-off.

He'd started the game then. Ordered her to hold herself steady while he fucked her cunt with his tongue, licking her until her thighs were shaking with pleasure and the effort of not moving. Karen still doesn't know why she complied with his directions, or why she continues to let him dictate each moment of their intimacy, but all it took was one glance of those green eyes to force her to obey. It sends a thrill through her to give up the control of the very movement of her body to him. Such an opposite reaction to Amy, who would never allow such direction. It's become a regular occurrence since then, but always only when they're filming. There is an unspoken rule that they do not contact each other when they have time off from the set, as if they can contain whatever they do here to the confines of anonymous hotel rooms. He never ties her down, and she makes sure that he doesn't have to. When they fuck he covers her mouth with his hand, his eyes fixed on her own, as if to make sure that she is aware of the transgressions they commit. Of the betrayal of both of their partners waiting back at home.

Karen never flinches. It feels so unreal that she finds it hard to believe that what takes place between them isn't some sort of delusion brought on by her subconscious, and he makes sure to leave no marks on her body. She only knows it is real because they often fall asleep together, when he allows her to move her limbs again. Often, Arthur rubs her aching shoulders and he draws her close to him whilst they drift off. For a moment they pretend that they are the people whose lives they act out on screen, and then the guilt isn't quite so crushing.

She always leaves in the morning because she tells herself that she's trying to be professional, as much as she can be when she's sleeping with the man playing her husband. But Arthur is not Rory, and he makes sure that she never forgets it. He gives her commands to stay still when he takes her from behind, forbids her from making any noise as they move together, their movements urgent, desperate. He tells her what music to listen to when she's alone, tells her to touch herself to it on the rare days they're unable to be together because of shooting. He makes her memorise her lines in front of him, correcting her sharply when she forgets something or mispronounces any alien terminology, his fingers pushing into her wetness and his thumb brushing her clit so that she gasps and has to take a moment to compose herself before continuing. It's the sweetest form of torture she knows, and, to her great shame, she often finds herself thinking of him fucking her with his fingers when they're filming, though she's professional enough not to let it show.

Right now she takes a breath as he crosses the small space of the room to the foot of the bed, feels the mattress sink under his weight as he moves towards her, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he kisses her, hot and fierce, his tongue sweeping into her mouth without meeting any resistance. He kisses a trail down her body, his lips burning like fire, and then touches her clit softly with his tongue, making her gasp out loud. The sound pleases him, and he growls low in his throat before attacking her with tongue and lips and fingers, until Karen's biting her lips and forcing herself not to wrap her thighs around his head, her back arching off the bed. She must have made a pleading sound because Arthur stops suddenly, three of his fingers buried deep in her, his eyes dark with lust.

"What do you want?" He asks, licking the taste of her from his lips. "Do you want to be fucked, is that what you're wanting?"

It is against the rules of the game to speak unless he gives her explicit permission to, so Karen just nods violently. God damn him; she's so close. She needs him in her. Right now.

"Hmm." He pulls his fingers out of her aching cunt and sucks them clean very slowly, making an appreciative noise. Fuck his smug smile. Karen wants to move, to pull him down on her, but that is not allowed. She watches him strip instead, her thighs dripping. She knows each part of his body intimately now, but has never learnt to tame the impatience that curls in her belly each time he performs this deliberately slow striptease. First the worn jumper he wears everywhere, then the t-shirt underneath. Socks and shoes, then the belt and jeans follow, kicked off and the boxers fly somewhere and then he is naked, finally.

Arthur stretches over her, his cock brushing her belly, and she groans, unable to stop herself. It is sinfully good to feel his skin against hers. The first, fevered time they'd done this, she had nearly torn his t-shirt off in her hurry to be able to touch him properly. She wants everything, wants to lose herself in the warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips, and pretend that the world outside the hotel room doesn't exist. That they aren't betraying the people they've left at home. But he never lets her, so she tries to hold herself still as his knee nudges her thighs apart.

"Look at me," he says, and she does, their eyes meeting as he sinks slowly into her wetness. Karen wants to dig her fingers into the pale, pristine flesh of his shoulders and mark it hers, but she does not. Instead she arches her back and bites her lips, watching the expression on his face as he fucks her. He is gentle, at first, one hand pushing down on her wrists, the other wrapped around her hip as he thrusts into her. Again and again and again and then he starts to lose some of his control, and the hand around her wrists pushes down harder. It feels so good. _They_ feel so good, fit so well together and move so in time with each other. Just like Rory and Amy, and Karen wants to scream a name, any name. But she can't. Heat builds in her and she can feel the rest of the world fading away into the background, and she wants to close her eyes because she knows there will be sparks behind her eyelids, but he won't let her out of his gaze.

She hates feeling so naked like this. She hates even more that it excites her beyond belief. Arthur pulls almost all the way out of her and thrusts into her again, deliberate and slow this time, and Karen can feel the crest of her climax rising to meet her and she chases it eagerly, rocking her hips back against his. She might be a little out of line, but the look in Arthur's eyes tells her he isn't going to punish her for it. She bits down a little harder on her lower lip and concentrates on matching his pace. And then he does something unexpected. His hand at her hip loosens its grip and cups her face instead and suddenly he's kissing her, all sweet tenderness and heat. Karen kisses him back hungrily, whining into his mouth. So close. She's so damned close -

"Let go," he says, after pulling his mouth away from hers. "Come for me, Karen. God, you're beautiful like this. So beautiful. Come for me."

Karen feels as though her body is exploding, her orgasm ripping through her with its ferocity. Arthur thrusts into her one last time and groans loudly as he comes, the sound echoing weirdly in the small room. He slides out and nearly falls on top of her but manages to prop himself up on his elbows at the last moment. Karen takes this as her cue and frees herself from his now-limp grip, winds her arms around him, pulls him against her, feels his breath on her neck and shivers with post-orgasmic delight. After a moment he stirs, presses a kiss to her collarbone, then to her neck, making her giggle, and then he kisses her so gently she wants to cry. He looks at her, his green eyes confused.

Suddenly, Karen wishes there was more to this than just hotel rooms and stolen moments in trailers. She runs her fingers through his messy hair (very Amy, she thinks) and pulls him down for another kiss. And then another, until she feels him stirring against her again.

"Fuck," she states. Runs her hand down his body to cup the curve of his arse. It is a gesture that would have earned her a sharp rebuke, before. "We're screwed now, aren't we?"

Arthur won't look at her for the longest time. When he finally does, all he says is, "I don't remember allowing you to move."

"Shut up," she tells him. "I'm breaking the rules."

"I'm not Rory," he says, and she loves him in that moment. "This can't be like on TV. We don't get to run away at the end."

"And we don't travel in time," Karen throws back, tears she didn't know she was crying running down her face. "So just shut up."

For the first time, she doesn't leave in the morning. Instead, she watches the sun rise, wrapped in the tangle of his arms, feeling the cold daylight fall on their faces.


End file.
